whirlpool top-loader
by dilemmas
Summary: This would all be over if she had someone she could go down on. It's such a cliché, a linguist with a crazy oral fixation, but she can't help it. [frustration, basically] [alex/james, fantasy blake/rossi, past alex/erin, past alex/oc]


_Whites, whites, delicates, colours… is that even dirty? Ew, yeah._ She was frustrated, like, out of no where _fuck, I need a cigarette_ frustrated. Maybe it was the fact she was doing laundry _in_ the laundry room (_not the time to think about that, honestly, Alex_), or the fact that James had been gone for _two months_, or the fact that she'd gone out with the team last night and there was bourbon and scruff and _no, no do _not_ think like that in your own goddamn home sober_.

_Shit_. She stuffed the whites down the top-loader and set the machine for cold-wash (_yeah, one of those is in order_), and sauntered up to the bedroom, all warm yellows and soft pillows and unmade because who the hell makes their own bed when they get out of it at eleven on a Saturday morning? She collapses and shucks off her ring tossing it in the jewellery dish on the nightstand. (She never reads into this, it's not about shame or fantasy or whatever, it's an antique and it just feels wrong having to rinse it off.)

There's something wonderfully dirty about coming with your jeans half on and it's something she's revelled in since that first time it happened, but it's just not happening now. Usually she's fine with just feeling, hell, when it's been this long she can be watching NCIS reruns and be done in three minutes but her mind just won't shut off. It's going to be another week until James finds out when he's coming home and _god_ is it tempting to book a one-way ticket to South Sandistan or wherever the hell he was this time. She's thinking tropics. For a brain that won't shut off it sure can't think up any pertinent details of her husband's whereabouts.

She'd been out with the team last night and she should have know this would happen. _Christ_. David God Damn Rossi and one Mr. Jack Daniels and a smile shot at her as she headed to the ladies' room was _not_ a good mix for a happily married (if occasionally, unavoidably neglected) woman. If she'd been less conservative in college she'd be able to conjure up a memory of getting fucked against a bathroom stall but no, all she could think about was tipping her head to the side and leading Dave into the not-quite-dim-enough bathroom and having him make her scream his name. There's something deliciously sinful about the thought of slipping away from the team for a quickie in the back, but she'd never act on it. It's the scruff, the beard that gets her every. single. time.

(James luxuriates in being clean-shaven the first week he gets home and she _knows_ he does it just because once he skips a couple of days she's all over him.)

Still nothing. Well, not _nothing_, she's more than primed and can't believe Claire had listened to her for the_ first time in their thirty year friendship_ and _not_ bought her a vibrator for her birthday this year. (The first time she'd done it was for her 21st, and then every year since James had been working with MSF. It's the dumbest thing to be anal about, she knows, but once Claire had gotten into the habit of buying these forty dollar ones every year she'd felt odd about keeping them for more than one unless they were something spectacular, and there'd been a couple, yeah, but they'd had their day.)

Within seconds of getting up and sucking the come off her fingers there's a trail of clothes (jeans, undies, bra, tank) leading into the master bathroom and with a flick of the tap the room starts steaming up. _Thank god for a good water heater_. She sinks into the corner of the shower once she's wrangled the shower head from it's hold. As soon as the water hits her clit she doesn't even bother holding in the _fuck_, she's waited too long for this now and it's just getting annoying. The heat usually gets her in an instant and yet she's struggling, she _knows_ she's turned on, and she _knows_ what usually works but today is just a whole other level of bullshit. She tries to concentrate on sensation, of the heat of the tiles at her back, the way her shoulder blades angle perfectly that they feel more like leather than marble, the errant spray that hits her eyelids. She mewls frustrated and tries to think of something, anything that'll get her off and quick. She tries to remember what she did the last time she got off in the shower but it's all wiped from her memory by the six orgasms she'd had and she's _pissed_.

She pulls the spray back, have it hit further down her cunt as she brings her knuckles to her lips and licks between her fingers. Thinks back to sometime in the first few weeks of Amerithrax after a frustratingly slow day when she'd somehow ended up doing shots of Stoli in her townhouse with Erin. She doesn't remember how but they'd ended up in her bed with Erin's (ripped) stocking-clad thighs over her shoulder's and she'd come against the seam of her jeans at Erin's death grip on her hair as she'd sucked and lapped her through her second orgasm. _When the fuck did I eat rockmelon?_ Fucking christ, it's tempting the hurl the shower head into the glass of the enclosure but she'd rather not get caught in the shrapnel while naked, wet, and feeling like a cat in heat.

This would all be over if she had someone she could go down on. It's such a cliché, a linguist with a crazy oral fixation, but she can't help it. The last time it was this bad was her first time. She'd left him with hickeys and bit his bottom lip red and swollen and she _so_ wished she didn't have seven shots of tequila and probably half a bottle of Baileys in her. (It was Spring Break and they'd always stayed in town. The beach is overrated and they weren't exactly extroverts.)

They'd known each other forever and she'd never have guessed he'd be anal about safe sex with _her_ of all people. I mean, it's not like he didn't know she was on the pill and had been for a good three years at this point. Though it could have something to do with the fact he'd dubbed her overly-maternal a couple of years back when she'd cooed over a toddler after they'd been out for burgers one weekend. (She loved kids, but she was not in _any_ position, _ever_, to be a mother. Her and her brothers had gotten lucky when their mom's bipolar skipped a generation, shit, that entire side of the family was riddled with mood disorders and the odd schizophrenic.)

They're at it, drunk and careless for what feels like maybe two hours but was probably only forty minutes at most. God, he was being too nice, too sweet and she was so pissed with herself that this was her best friend's MO. If she thought he wouldn't freak out if she threw the condom away she'd get down there and make him pull her hair to get her revved up. She really, really did not want to die choking on a Trojan and that's all she could think about. God, if they were somewhere else she'd be able to smoke while he went at her clit too hard. She can't remember if he ever even got it in but she does remember putting her clothes (well, purple lace undies - there was a bra too and she totally didn't buy it in the off chance this would happen - and one of Danny's old shirts,) back on and passing out more tired than anything else.

_God, this is getting ridiculous_. In a last ditch attempt she lies flat against the tiles (_should've done this in the fucking tub_) and tries to go back to blanking her mind and just feeling until she realises the washing's probably done and _god, yes_ she remembers when she and James had moved into this house and how he'd carried her over the threshold (though after she put on a load of colours and underwear. The machine in their townhouse had broken down the week before the move and things were getting desperate,) and they'd ended up necking like teenagers on the couch until the machine beeped.

She'd tried, honestly, not to let it bug her but she'd never been able to let shit lie like that so she dragged her hands down her husband's body feeling him strained against his jeans and she flashed him a grin as he moaned back at her. Two minutes later he'd snuck up behind her and lifted her onto of the top-loader a moment after she'd set it for the whites and he's got his pants around his ankles and hers are dangling from one foot because she just can't seem to shake them off and it's killing her that the Whirlpool beneath her is _just_ off tempo, but then James pulls her forward and he's right _there_ and she's careening over and under and she can feel herself pulsing around his cock and _god_ she had never loved this man more than the moment he bites at the muscle between her neck and her shoulder and she's breathless and finally, finally she groans in real time and can feel herself slick and soft and hot against her fingers and she's glad all that water hasn't gone to waste.

She kicks the tap off after an minute of relishing the water beating at her hypersensitive skin and she's loose and heavy so glad she put fresh towels out because these are the expensive ones she puts out when James gets home and they're plush and huge and she'd wear them day in, day out if it were socially acceptable. The rush of cool air turns her uncovered skin to gooseflesh as she walks sated and drowsy before she collapses to the bed. She hums contentedly against the pillow and absently reaches for her phone, her brain's shut down and she can't think about timezones but she somehow gets to the phone app and calls him.

Turns out she was right with the tropics, he's in Lae and it's "like hell but about twenty times as humid" and he can tell by her voice she's post-orgasm and he's cocky and asks if she was thinking about him, she reminds him of the (first) time on the top-loader and he has to get her to stop because it's early and he _really_ doesn't need to be thinking about her voice all gravely and dream-like regaling the events of the first christened room in his head all day. They don't talk for much longer, he's on six-to-six in the hospital and was already behind time. They share their twin 'love you's and 'miss you's and mean it now just as ever. She turns over replacing the phone on the nightstand and slips her ring back on, and the moment she's back over she's out and not even the faint, incessant beeping of the washing machine is reason enough to get her out of this bed.

**a/n: i'm super into pre-bau/young alex right now and this ~came to me. first foray into lemon-territory so con-crit is greatly appreciated xx**


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